


Taming the Dragon; or, The Epic of John, Wat's Son, and His Irresistible Cock

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dragon Sherlock, Epic, Epic Poetry, M/M, Poetry, Remix, human sacrifice!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a human sacrifice. Sherlock is a dragon. It's clearly a great adventure.</p><p>Also, penises.</p><p>Speak memory to me, muse,<br/>O lustful cock monster remind us<br/>Of hero John Wat’s son, and Sherlock the dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taming the Dragon; or, The Epic of John, Wat's Son, and His Irresistible Cock

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sacrifices Must Be Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/904589) by [Winter_of_our_Discontent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent). 



> For the inaugural edition of Wits on Tap, a poetry flash challenge. Go and visit the collection!

Speak memory to me, muse,  
O lustful cock monster remind us  
Of hero John Wat’s son, and Sherlock the dragon.

O, this fangirl calls on her Muse, the lustful cock monster, to inspire!  
As I speak of the valour of John, son of Wat  
And his tongue of silver and prick of steel  
Which defeated and tamed Sherlock the dragon  
Who, in his size and brilliance, once terrorized the village  
The village that lay in the sweet, green valley.

For lo, and when they, the sun-soaked villagers  
Decided that John, son of Wat, would go  
And offer his slim golden body up to the dragon.  
He marched, brave, brown, and angry, alone to the mountain,  
There, he shouted into the cave, with its dragon-dark echoes  
And waited, in the scorched-black evergreens high in the mountains

His brave head drooped on the moss and he slept,  
Slept by the tall, scorched-black pines of the dragon’s deep den  
Our hero, come to save his sweet-faced sister, his village, his sheep.  
He dreamed as he slept, John Watson, by the trees,  
Dreamed of sturdy young men and slender-limbed lasses,  
His cock hard in his trousers; no fear of dragons, sleeping there on the mountain

Then, like a rumble of thunder, the great, bloody dragon appeared  
Huge, dark, and shining, with grey catlike eyes,  
With talons like razors and curved teeth like danger alive.  
When he saw it, young John, supple and strong like a tree,  
He stumbled back at its size, and yet feared not,  
The great curvèd scimitars of the wild beast’s mouth.

It spake then, its voice deep and questioning,  
Vibrating along young John’s nerves like a cat in a cello  
The dark silky pleasures of its maleness a spark in his trousers,  
As John braved the dragon’s large mouth and declared  
His intention to stand for his village, his body a morsel  
For the large sleek beast in the mountain.

“No,” the dragon declared, and John in his stubborn strength  
Insisted the dragon regard him, his tongue sharp and angry,  
Goading the lizard to argue, there in the stones on the mountain,  
Though the dragon would threaten him, slim human body so tempting,  
John stood firm, demanding that he be consumed, that silver-tongued boy,  
Though the dragon would consume him, tear his flesh from his bones,  
Rip his limbs from his torso, with claws and teeth,  
Crack his bones for the marrow, richly fat and delicious to gnaw--

The dragon paced like a cat, breathed in the scent of young Wat’s son,  
Its scales shining grey, pewter grey in the light of the evening  
As young John declared that his village was without treasure or livestock;  
Even their maidens depleted; his one sister the last, sunk in Sapphic sweetness,  
John, with his deep love of cock and his hard fists of oak, fought to protect.

Pitching his body on those of his village, John came away victor

This the dragon did tell, his short laugh of flame in the air,  
And John watched with delight at the shine and the flicker of heat  
And the cleverness of Sherlock the Dragon, there on the mountain,  
Was bright as the river’s blue depths and John’s smile was ready  
Ready for the smile of the dragon, and his dark deep voice,  
Happy with flattery of the boy, the slim golden boy from the village.

And then John Wat’s son’s sweet silver tongue turned on the dragon  
The beast roared at him, its glory impugned, and insulted his sister,  
The sweet Sapphic Harry, lover of wine  
John Wat’s son drew back his fist, and, with an oath on his lips,  
Struck the lizard of legend, right on his nose,  
And they laughed, the moon-bright dragon and the sun-bright boy.

His laugh in his throat still, he gasped and he wondered,  
as the lizard scooped him up into the air, and flew to his home,  
Wonderful dark lair, lit with bright things of gold, and lamps innumerable  
And items of great price. John looked in amazement, and his soul  
Twined around that of the dragon, for the beast had a spark,  
A look to his eye that showed he knew that John was no maiden.

The brave, strong movement of his body, the heat in his eye,  
Belied John’s knowledge of the ways of the field and hayloft;  
His tongue, quick in his mouth, bearing sweet promise;  
His hands, hard and deft, to hold and to touch;  
His arse, rounded and supple, soft and yet hard,  
His cock, heavy and thick on his thighs and quick to the charge,  
These were the charms of John, Wat’s son, that summer’s day.

The dragon, low-voiced and rumbling, breathed on John’s cheek,  
His tongue, warm, wet, and rough, along the boy’s bare throat,  
Sent slow curling shivers, down to the cock of John Wat’s son.  
“Delicious, you are” the dragon deduced, his body transforming,  
Becoming like human, though with great horns and tail,  
His eyes predatory on John in the dark of the cave.

And then the devouring began; the dragon-boy’s lithe heated body  
Above John’s and seeking, with tail and with tongue. John Wat’s son joined in,  
Biting and kissing, drawing a roil of sound from the dragon-boy’s chest.  
Clothes fell like snowflakes, there in the dark rich cavern,  
Ripping and tearing, thrilling John’s skin as they struggled to join,  
Sherlock’s toothy great mouth hot on John’s slender brown hips.

John arched to the heat, his hands in the dark silky curls,  
His body a-shiver. He gripped Sherlock’s head, the strength of his hands  
A bruising force; the dragon-boy sighed, then parted John’s arse  
And embraced his soft cleft, the strong supple tongue in his depths.  
John was full and open, waiting for more, and Sherlock obliged,  
Giving a pleasure unprintable, raw and intense. John screamed.

Later, John woke; his body beaten and bruised, Sherlock curled around him.  
Their kisses entwined, their souls in full harmony;  
Soft words fill the cavern, the cavern of home and of hearts,  
And the sated young bodies embraced in the dark of the cave.  
Promises flew, and so the two strangers ‘came one,  
Now and forever in strength and in youth.

And this, listeners, is how John Wat’s son tamed Sherlock the Dragon;  
Their love, now legend, fruit of sacrifice; long-standing, like cocks,  
Protects the sun-warmed village, where sweet Sapphic Harry  
Frolics with shepherdesses, scissoring soft on the spring-grass,  
While deep in the mountain, tongues, arseholes, and thighs,  
Fill the long days with beauty and love and of pleasure.

Speak memory to me, muse,  
O lustful cock monster remind us  
Of hero John Wat’s son, and Sherlock his mate.

**Author's Note:**

> This poem is obviously inspired by Beowulf and other folk epics, but also by Earle Birney’s reasonably modern epic, “David”, which you should all read if you get the chance. Other things you should read: WINTER'S FIC BECAUSE IT IS THE GREATEST.


End file.
